


the arms that hold me (as I burn)

by PeriPeriwinkle



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Brief Mention Of Past Sickness, Canon Asexual Character, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Consent, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mild Hurt/Comfort, OT3, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sex Positive Asexual Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26092876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeriPeriwinkle/pseuds/PeriPeriwinkle
Summary: Martin becomes ill with a nasty cold, and after he recovers, his GP tells him he has to stay off his heat blockers for at least a week.What he hasn't told Jon, though, is that he's never beenoffhis heat blockers before. Never been in heat in his entire life.Jon holds him all the way through it, though. Doing any less never even crossed his mind.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 25
Kudos: 312





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Besides being an A/B/O AU, this is also an Everything's Fine AU; in this timeline Jon is the head archivist and Martin, Tim and Sasha are his assistants, but nothing actually spooky has been slowly ruining their lives and Jon and Martin have actually been dating for quite a while. this is just some good ol' domestic fluffy porn because I love and appreciate y'all.
> 
> (idk what happened to Gertrude in this AU, but I feel like Gerry convinced her to retire or something, so dont worry she's perfectly fine)
> 
> also pls note the "other tags to be added" tag - it's nothing huge (sorta) and definitely nothing bad like someone getting hurt or an unusual kink that will catch everyone by surprise, but I figured I'd add it only after chapter 2 is out since adding that tag now might be a bit misleading. you'll figure out what the tag is by the end of this chapter, though, so have fun with that! you can also skip to the end notes to find out what it is if you don't want surprises with your porn (which, fair)
> 
> anyway enough of me babbling. have some pwp. enjoy <3

Martin rarely ever gets sick; he’s barely taken a week off of work in the six or so years he’s been working at the Institute. Which is a good thing, especially if you consider that, whenever he gets truly sick and not just iffy or simply under the weather, whatever it is that he has usually takes him completely down for the count.

So when the itch at the back of Martin’s throat morphs from annoying into painful, he knows straight away that he’s _fucked_.

Jon fusses, as usual, insists he stay in bed, makes cups upon cups of strong ginger tea with honey, cooks chicken soup every night for dinner, wipes Martin’s brow with a cold damp cloth to help with the fever.

Still, the cold persists, and Martin gets exponentially worse with each passing day. Jon drives him to the hospital the evening his fever spikes dangerously, his throat so inflamed he can barely swallow water, and Martin is admitted overnight to stay under observation.

Martin feels much better the next morning, his throat almost completely healed and his fever gone. The doctor that comes to let him know he’s good to go home prescribes him an antibiotic for the next week or so, and Jon nods solemnly, tucking the meds and prescriptions she hands him onto his duffle bag, writing down reminders on a small notepad while Martin dozes off groggily where he sits, still tired from the meds and from being so sick for so long.

A thought hits him through the fog and he looks up, alarmed.

“Uh. Antibiotics? For a week?”

“Yes, Mister Blackwood,” the doctor nods, looking sympathetic, almost as if she knows what Martin’s thinking. “This means no alcohol, and also no heat blockers, I’m afraid.”

A cold dread runs up Martin’s spine, and Jon looks between them both, seemingly confused.

“Yes, of course doctor, that’s quite doable,” he says, but Martin is still frozen speechless. The doctor sighs, then plucks a pamphlet off the wall behind her, handing it over to Jon, who blushes.

It’s titled _How To Properly Support Your Partner Through Their Heat Cycle_.

Jon stares. Then stares some more.

“I, uh, I don’t–”

“Mister Blackwood, if I may ask, when was the last time you were off your heat blockers?”

“I, uh. Um. Never, really. I started taking them as soon as... when I was fifteen. I never...” and he trails off, looking solemnly at the floor. The doctor nods, then places a warm hand on his shoulder.

“It’ll be fine,” she reassures him in a soothing voice, and Martin nods, feeling almost numb. “Go home, boys. Get some rest, eat some food and drink plenty of water, Mister Blackwood. You’ll be feeling much better tomorrow.”

 _No guarantees for the next five days or so_ , Martin thinks, but instead he just nods.

“T-thank you again, doctor,” Jon stutters, getting up and shaking her hand, one arm wrapping around Martin’s shoulders and steering him towards the door. Martin goes, but it’s almost as if his legs are taking him out of their own accord. The drive back to their flat is quiet, the silence heavy, and Martin looks out the window in both exhaustion from the still lingering symptoms of his cold and dread for the week ahead of him.

Once home, Martin showers, puts on the softest pajama set he owns, and crawls back into bed. Jon knocks against the open door to announce himself with a bowl of soup just a few minutes later—cream of mushroom topped with freshly grated parmesan, just like Martin likes—and Martin sits up to eat as Jon sits at the chair they brought to the bedside just a couple of days ago.

Jon twists his fingers in his lap, cracks his knuckles, presses his thumbs into his palms. Looks everywhere but at Martin’s face.

“I, uh. I read the pamphlet,” Jon says finally once Martin is nearly finished with his soup. Martin winces and turns to look at Jon. “I admit, I’m not– not at all knowledgeable, I, well, I don’t–”

“It’s alright, Jon,” Martin says, trying to go for reassurance but only managing exhausted. He does manage to crack a small smile, though, which Jon reciprocates, and he reaches out and takes one of Jon’s hands in his. “It’s like she said, it won’t be so bad. I’ll manage.”

“But you said you’ve never... the pamphlet says that if you have a, a _steady partner_ , it’s highly recommended that you stop taking the blockers as soon as possible and allow your heat to come through naturally, or it just builds up and up and–”

“Jon.”

Jon stops, his teeth clacking as his mouth snaps shut. Martin sighs, takes a few extra spoonfuls of soup. Tightens his hold on Jon’s hand.

“I... had no idea. You should’ve told me, Martin.”

“Jon, you’re an asexual beta. Your body wouldn’t– _won’t_ respond to my heat anyway, and I didn’t want, well, I _don’t_ want you to feel obligated to, to _engage_ in... to _have sex_ with me once every couple of months, you know? Heats can be exhausting, and I didn’t want to burden you with that.”

“Burden...!” Jon mutters, annoyed. “Martin, you’re not a _burden_. Don’t you ever think you are. _Ever_. In no circumstances.”

“Have you ever cared for an omega in heat, Jon?” Martin snaps back, annoyed. “Do you have _any_ idea of what it’s like?!”

“Have you?” Jon rebuts, and Martin winces, because _yeah_ , he’s got him there.

“I haven’t had first-hand experience, _no_ , but I _know_ what it’s like, and I... _shit_.” Martin presses his free hand against his face, closing his eyes tightly. Jon scoots closer, both hands now wrapped around Martin’s. “I know more or less how it’s like from someone who has them _regularly_ , but for someone who has never had one... someone’s very first heat... I didn’t want you to feel pressured into being part of it. It can be a lot. It’s _going_ to be a lot.”

Jon shakes his head, sets the nearly empty bowl of soup off to the side and gets in the bed, pressing himself next to Martin, both of his arms coming around to embrace him. Martin sighs and melts into it, and Jon places a kiss at the top of his head, in between his ginger curls.

“I’m in this for the long run, Martin. You know that,” he whispers, and Martin shivers with the words, with how warm and sincere they sound. “And I don’t say that loosely, I mean it. You wouldn’t be able to avoid having your first heat _forever_.”

“I could’ve _tried_ ,” Martin grumbles, and Jon chuckles.

“I’m sure you would’ve. But I’m here now, and I’ll be here for whatever you need me, alright?”

Martin nods, a shiver running through him. “A-alright. Thank you, Jon. I’m real sorry for not telling you earlier.”

“I understand. Now sleep, Martin.”

And he does.

\---

Martin feels much better the very next day, already up and about their flat, cooking and helping with cleaning. He’s back at the Institute on Monday, anxious to be back to work, but on Thursday afternoon the first signs of his heat start showing.

He mostly feels unusually warm. Martin’s always ran hotter, not feeling the chill of the Institute's aircon even when they put it on blast and everyone else has to bundle up with jackets and cardigans, but right now he’s close to burning up. The heat builds up gradually, starting deep in his belly, the feeling similar to when he drinks a particularly warm tea or an unpleasantly strong drink, and as the minutes tick by it slowly spreads up to his chest and down to his legs and arms, making his fingers and toes tingle in an odd way, making him restless. The heat eventually spreads in such a way that if Martin closes his eyes he can clearly picture himself lying out in the grass of a park on a clear summer morning, the sun beating down on his skin and making his limbs loose and pliant, his skin pleasantly hot to the touch. Sweat beads on his forehead, his whole body feels heavy, and he knows that his skin is certainly flushed red as the heat fluctuates between pleasant to overwhelming and uncomfortable and then back, like the swaying of a boat at sea.

Jon, of course, is the first one to notice, and he fusses over Martin like a mother hen, worried the fever might be making a comeback, but as Martin is trying to brush him off and reassure him that this is nothing like how his fever felt, Tim coughs from his own desk. _Loudly_.

“Yeaaah, you might wanna get yourself home asap, Marto,” he says, voice tight and cheeks reddish. Jon frowns. “And take a cab, too. And ask for an omega driver!” Sasha giggles, taking a folder off of Tim’s desk to fan his face as he cartoonishly pulls on the collar of his sweater and slumps back on his chair. “ _Sheesh_ , what the hell! I’m _dying_ over here and you’re like seven feet away! That came out of _nowhere_ , I’m reeling a bit.”

Jon widens his eyes.

“Wait, you can...?” Jon asks, hesitant, and Tim chuckles a bit darkly. Sasha slaps his arm and Martin shivers under the hand Jon has in his upper back, focusing instead on his phone as he pulls up Uber and selects the option for an omega driver.

“Betas can’t smell things like we do, Jon, and _boy oh boy_ , Martin smells freaking _fantastic_. No offense, Jon, but trust me, you _don’t_ want Martin in the office at this point, much less taking public transportation.”

Jon humphs, a bit annoyed, but Martin’s already pocketing his phone and gathering his things.

“He’s right, Jon. Besides, if Tim can smell me from his desk it means that I’m _definitely_ not running a fever, which is good news, right?” He tries cracking a smile, but Jon notices how his hand is shaking as it clenches onto the shoulder strap of his backpack. Jon nods, resolute.

“Right. I’m coming home with you.”

“Oh, uh, you don’t ha–”

“ _Martin._ ”

Jon, Sasha and Tim say his name simultaneously, all three of them using the same stern tone of voice, and Martin jumps, quieting down right away.

“For maybe the first time in my life I have to side with Jon on this one,” Tim says, and Jon shoots him a glare as he rushes back to his office to gather his things. “You should _absolutely_ let him go home with you. Trust me, you don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Right.” Martin looks down at his shoes, feels a blush rising on his cheeks, places some papers on his desk drawer just to have something to do with his hands while he waits for Jon. He closes the door to his office behind him less than a minute later, shoulder bag zipped up with his jacket thrown haphazardly over it.

“Call us if you need anything, boys. And I really do mean _anything_ , you hear me?” Sasha says when Jon links arms with Martin, pulling that playful yet stern glare that means she’s being serious but also worried, like the overprotective beta she is. Tim nods, almost as if reluctant to agree, his shoulders tense.

“Thank you both. I believe Martin and I have everything covered, but I’ll make sure to let either of you know if we need anything.”

“Text Sasha first, though,” Tim says, sounding a bit choked up. Martin notices it’s because he’s holding his breath. “For... obvious reasons.”

“Right,” Jon says, nodding.

“See you Monday, Tim, Sasha,” Martin mutters as they walk past Tim’s desk, Sasha pressing a kiss to his flushed cheek as he does so, the place where her lips have touched his skin feeling like someone pressed a hot poker to his face, yet oddly pleasant at the same time. Tim just waves weakly, face slowly turning purple as he struggles to keep holding his breath, and Jon nods and waves back at them both.

They both hear Tim cursing as soon as the office door snaps closed behind them.

\---

When they arrive at their flat Martin’s shirt is soaked through and he’s shivering slightly.

“I’m going to jump in the shower real quick,” he says, and Jon nods.

“I’ll bring you some fresh clothes,” Jon adds, and Martin thanks him as he goes into the bathroom, leaving the door open. No reason to close it if he’s having a cold shower, Jon reckons, as he gets an old t-shirt and shorts Martin sleeps in during the summer, thumbing the fabric to make sure the worn cotton is soft and not scratchy. He’d read on the pamphlet that clothes need to be extra comfortable during the period before and after a heat, since omegas feel everything acutely during this time, and anything uncomfortable will just feel ten times worse on their oversensitive skin.

Jon fidgets. He thought he'd have maybe another day before Martin started feeling the effects of the heat, and he wonders if he’s prepared enough for it. He’d looked at some alpha cock sleeves online at one point, but the idea of both wearing and using one didn’t sit well with him, so he didn’t buy it, but now he wonders if he should have. He has no idea exactly what Martin will need, what will sate him and make his heat be as smooth sailing as possible.

He leaves the pajamas draped over their bed and goes to the kitchen to warm up the leftover veggie soup he’d prepared the previous day, decidedly not thinking about it any longer.

When Martin walks into the kitchen he still looks flushed, but he also looks... relaxed. His eyes are half lidded and his lips are parted, somehow looking plumper than usual, his freckles standing out like they’re mating marks and he’s trying to look _delectable_. Jon shakes his head to dislodge these thoughts and makes his way to the dinner table, setting down their bowls and spoons and sitting next to Martin.

He sets a gentle hand on Martin’s forearm and feels him shivering, the hairs on his arm standing on end with goosebumps.

“How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”

Martin shakes his head, gingerly takes a sip of his soup.

“Not right now, but, uh... we should bring the big water bottle to bed tonight. Leave it on the nightstand.”

“Yes, of course,” Jon nods, then goes back to focus on his own dinner. It’s a comfortable silence, and they press their socked feet together under the table, that small contact a balm to their nerves.

Later, when Martin’s already in bed and fast asleep, Jon calls in sick at work for them both before finally crawling into bed, snuggling behind Martin under the covers and humming contently with how warm Martin is.

When Jon wakes up next he smells something cloyingly sweet, like freshly burnt sugar or sticky toffee caramel that’s been melted on an open fire. He wrinkles his nose, turns around, and reaches out towards Martin.

His hand lands on Martin’s bare chest and he immediately notices how it’s covered in sweat. Jon’s _sure_ that Martin was wearing his t-shirt when Jon joined him in bed last night, but as his brain is trying to make sense of this anomaly he hears Martin moan, a small, almost broken thing, and Jon finally opens his eyes.

Martin looks _wrecked_. Like Jon’s hand is searing a brand onto his pectoral—which it might as well be.

“Martin,” he whispers, pulling his hand back and scooting closer. Martin’s body radiates heat like a furnace, and Martin shudders out a shaky breath and opens his eyes to look back at Jon.

His pupils are blown wide, there are beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, and he’s panting, breathing hard and shallowly through his mouth. He looks tense as well, like a coiled spring ready to unfurl, and Jon gets up on his elbow and wipes some of the sweat off his brow with the back of his fingers. Martin closes his eyes tightly and moans in response, squirming a little but seemingly careful not to dislodge Jon’s touch.

“J-Jon...”

“You should’ve woken me,” he says, worried. Martin opens his eyes again, squinting, and grimaces.

“I just woke up as well. But couldn’t sleep a whole lot. Too hot.”

Jon hums and fetches the water bottle on their bedside table, noticing how it’s already half empty. Martin must’ve had some to drink in the middle of the night.

“Here,” he says, tipping it gently onto Martin’s parted lips, and Martin drinks greedily. “Do you want to have another shower?”

Martin shakes his head _no_ , gasps. “No point, I’ll just sweat right through again.” He laughs humourlessly. “Not like I stink anyway.”

Which, Jon realizes, is true. Even with his weak beta senses he realizes that the sweet smell from before is coming from Martin, exuding off of him the same way body odour does.

“Oh,” is all Jon can say to that, and Martin chuckles.

“Ever the poet, Jon.”

Once he decides he’s definitely not leaving Martin’s side, Jon orders two servings of full English breakfast, as per Martin’s request. It’s his favourite meal by far, and he needs to be well fed now as it’s very likely he won’t be coherent enough to eat much of anything by the time lunch time rolls around. Jon gets up only to answer the door and retrieve the food from the delivery man, who looks at Jon like he can smell Martin all over him (and isn’t _that_ a thought), and when he comes back Martin looks visibly relieved, like Jon leaving for all of thirty seconds was physically painful for him.

Martin, starving as he is, eats with gusto, wiping the sauce off his plate with a slice of buttered sourdough bread, moaning around a mouthful of veggie sausage. Jon smiles as he watches him, and once they’re both done Martin decides he’ll go for that shower after all, and maybe brush his teeth and just walk around the flat to try and get the jittery feeling off his legs. Jon nods and goes to change the sheets and throw away the take-out containers while Martin’s in the bathroom.

He’s just finished shutting all blinds around the flat—the pamphlet said bright lights could hurt an omega’s eyes, as their pupils dilate during their heat—when Martin comes stumbling out of the bathroom, wearing absolutely nothing.

He’s _hard_ , Jon notes, and he has a feeling that the way his cock is glistening is not at all from the shower. Martin comes closer, cautiously, looking around their flat in a daze, eyes roaming over the dozens of flickering battery-powered tea candles spread around the room, at the assortment of snacks and drink bottles atop their side table, and at the pile of pillows and folded blankets carefully arranged over the couch.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, numbly. “This is... so nice, Jon.”

It’s weird, to see Martin looking so out of himself, with a raging erection that almost looks _painful_ , but also so... calm. So _Martin_. Jon was worried the heat would make him lose his mind a little, but he looks lucid enough—at least for now.

Jon shrugs, wringing his hands together nervously. “Just making sure you’re comfortable. How are you feeling?”

Martin chuckles and wobbles towards Jon, where he collapses on the rug on his knees.

“Weird. Can we set up down here for a bit? Don’t wanna go back to bed or up on the couch. And I like the tea lights.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Jon nods, rushing to pull the pillows, sheets and blankets off the couch, then push the coffee table away to a faraway corner. He then arranges the pillows where Martin will rest his head and spreads the sheets and blankets down over the rug, covering them with a double layer of clean towels. Martin immediately collapses over the neatly arranged pile with a loud moan and a shudder.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Martin gasps, back flat against the floor, legs bent and toes curled up tight. His cock nestles prettily against his belly, and Jon sits down next to him on the floor, holding the hand that’s gripping the sheets. “Showering, _ahh_... didn’t help. The water was freezing, I _know_ it was, I turned the tap all the way down, but it didn’t _feel_ like it at all, it felt lukewarm on my skin, it was so weird.”

Jon chuckles, tugging on his own thick sweater. “You’re telling me,” he says, pointing out how overdressed he is compared to Martin’s bare nakedness, and Martin giggles at that, squeezing Jon’s hand right back. He hesitates for a second, frowns as he takes a deep breath, and finally brings his free hand down to touch himself, moaning loud and long, but it’s choked, desperate, and his face twists, seemingly in discomfort.

“Does that not help at all?” Jon asks, worried, because it sounds nothing like Martin usually sounds like when he masturbates; it sounds almost _painful_. Martin inhales sharply, exhales shakily, his cheeks flushing ever darker. Jon is sure it would be a lovely sight for literally anyone else, but it only makes Jon feel stressed, powerless.

“Mmmm, my s-skin is so... warm and, and _weird_... it’s like I have pin-needles all over, but it’s also _not_ like that at all, it’s so... ahhh, _fuck_ ,” Martin whines, pulling his hand away to grasp at the pillow under his head and turning his head towards Jon, who’s still holding on to Martin’s hand like a lifeline. “Mmm, your hand in mine though, it feels... _so nice..._ ”

Jon hums, turns Martin’s hand palm up and runs the very tip of his fingers up from Martin’s inner wrist and down his palm, resting them atop the pad of Martin’s curled up fingers, which twitch all the way through the motions. Martin moans, a small, high pitched thing, eyes fluttering closed in pure bliss; he’s always loved these gentle, fluttering touches, but everything Jon does now seems to be amped up to the umpteenth level, his touch akin to drips of molten hot lava running down Martin’s skin. He moves his hand up and runs it down again, same as before, this time allowing his nails to graze Martin’s skin, noting how Martin reacts almost as if he was being raked instead of caressed.

He keeps it up for several minutes, slowly moving up from Martin’s wrist to his forearm, all the way to his inner elbow, and by the time Jon’s hand runs slowly down the entire half of Martin’s arm he’s a shivering mess, gasping and whimpering, whole body covered in a thin layer of warm sweat, the smell of caramel cloyingly sweet on the back of Jon’s throat. He absently wonders if his come would taste the same, and he feels his own cock reacting to the thought, showing interest in the events unfurling before him.

He cannot imagine how it must feel for an alpha, to be blanketed in these sounds, these sights, these smells and sensations. How overwhelming it must be. Jon himself can feel shivers over his skin when he catches sight of Martin biting his bottom lip until it’s red and swollen, feels his body growing warmer as he notes just how much precome is pooled on Martin’s belly and inner thigh, how much slick is leaking onto the towels beneath Martin. On an impulse, Jon reaches out and runs a finger through Martin’s skin, and Martin finally opens his eyes, watching intently as Jon looks at his index finger with awed fascination. The smell of burnt sugar is much stronger this up close, and it makes his mouth water. He brings his finger up to his mouth and sucks it clean, moaning as it hits his tastebuds.

 _Caramel pudding_ , he thinks, and Martin keens, high pitched, his cock weakly spurting more precome, almost as if someone was pressing insistently against his prostate. It’s hypnotizing, in a way, to watch Martin coming undone like this, with narely a touch to his starved body, like he can _feel_ Jon’s eyes roaming over his torso, memorizing every inch of bare skin; as if his gaze is just as intense as firm scratches, as gentle words, as passionate touches.

“Jon, please, _please_ touch me,” Martin begs, breathless, gasping for air almost as if he’d been underwater for several minutes and is just now gulping blessedly fresh air into his starving lungs. “It burns _so much_ , I can’t I need need, _need,_ oh _fuck_ I _needneedpleasepleaseohJon **please–** ”_

Jon shifts in place so he’s leaning over Martin, the hand that was caressing his skin now back to holding Martin’s hand, their fingers intertwined so tightly it’s almost as if they’ll both drown if they let go, which might as well be true in a sense. His other hand goes down and touches Martin’s cock gently, oh so gently, and Martin _howls_ , back arching off the floor and head thrown back as Jon wraps his fingers around it, not pressing or squeezing, just feeling its searing heat against his clammy palm, the slickness covering the member, how it twitches and pulses under his grasp.

He finally tightens his hold around it then moves his hand with precise strokes, once, twice, three times, twisting his wrist for emphasis, and Martin finally loses it, screaming out hoarsely as he comes undone, painting his entire torso and chest with his come, so hard and fast Jon can see the rhythm of his blood flowing through a vein in his neck. Jon leans down and latches his lips to it, kissing and sucking a bruise onto the sweaty skin there, feeling Martin’s heartbeat fluttering under his tongue, loving how it’s in almost perfect sync to the pulsing member still in his fist. It lasts for several seconds, a lot longer than Jon knows any regular orgasm should last for, but Martin eventually slumps down, body shivering and twitching, cock still hard and searing hot against Jon’s sticky palm.

Jon unlatches from his neck and looks down at Martin, smiling softly. He makes a gorgeous sight like this, his ginger curls sticking against his forehead and spilling over the pillows, lashes clumped together with tears of relief and overstimulation, cheeks flushed and mouth wet and inviting. So Jon kisses him, not even bothering to start low and slow, and Martin reciprocates immediately, clumsily, hungrily. He moans and groans into Jon’s mouth, his free hand coming up to tangle in Jon’s hair and pull him ever closer as they let their tongues roam the inside of each other’s mouths.

When they come up for air Jon is gasping, Martin’s hand tight and desperate in his hair. Martin had looked blissfully relaxed for a second after his orgasm, but now he’s back to looking tight and tense, almost if it hadn’t taken the edge off at all, instead only making it worse.

He pulls away for a second to fetch a water bottle, Martin whining when he untangles their hands to open the lid and arrange the pillows behind Martin so that he’s propped up a little and won’t choke sipping on the water. Martin drinks greedily, downing half of the entire bottle in one single gulp.

Jon sets the capped bottle to the side and touches foreheads with Martin. "How are you feeling?"

"Not enough," he says, squeezing his eyes shut. " _Burns_. Need. _Fuck_ , _I need--_ "

"Hey. I know. I know, I got you. Can you look at me, love?"

Jon cups Martin's face, Martin reaching up to clutch at his hands, taking long, deep breaths before finally peering up at Jon. His pupils are blown so widely Jon can barely see the green of his irises, and he looks so desperate, so _wanting_ , that it melts Jon's heart.

"Here you are," he whispers, smiling, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of Martin's mouth. "What do you need? Tell me and I'll give it to you."

Martin hesitates, fingers tightening around Jon's hands, eyes searching but shy. "I... I don't know, I don't..."

"Martin."

Martin stops, shoulders hunching up.

"I’m in this for the long run, remember? Right now all I want is to make you feel good. Don’t overthink it, I’ll let you know if I’m ever uncomfortable or need to stop, but being asexual doesn’t mean sex-repulsed. I _want_ to be here, _want_ to do this with you, you _know_ how much I love making you feel good. Stop holding yourself back and guide me through this, love. Let me be a part of this.”

It’s like a weight has been lifted off of Martin’s shoulders; he relaxes, but not enough to uncoil his tense muscles. His body still feels like it’s on fire where Jon touches him, and he squirms, uncomfortable.

“I-I don’t know how to _guide_ you, though, I feel– _Christ_ , I feel _so much_ everywhere, I-I don’t know where to focus, I just know that I need you to keep _touching_ me, otherwise I feel like, _like_ —”

Jon leans down and kisses him instead of letting him finish, and Martin inhales sharply, hands tightening on Jon’s wrists as Jon straddles Martin’s waist, pressing the entire length of his body over Martin’s. It’s apparently the right decision, because Martin almost chirps with delight, the way he moans low and long, vibrating deep in his chest and reverberating up and through to Jon as he slips his arms around his soft frame, as Martin grasps desperately to Jon’s hoodie.

“ _Off_ ,” he says with urgency against Jon’s lips, pulling at the waistband of Jon’s pants. “Off, off, _please—_ ”

Jon doesn’t need to be told twice; he gets up and shoves his pants down, kicking them away careful not to kick Martin in the process. When he sits back down atop Martin’s thighs they both shiver, Martin’s skin so feverish warm it makes Jon’s skin feel ice cold in contrast. But none of it seems to bother Martin, because he desperately pulls Jon’s hoodie up and off so he can wrap his arms and legs around Jon’s body, fingers scrambling against his back before settling on the back of Jon’s neck to pull him down into another messy kiss.

Their full body embrace is almost desperate, limbs tangled and arms holding on tightly as they kiss deep and hard, Martin moaning loudly as his fingers roam freely, scratching down the entire length of Jon’s back then back up as they hook onto his shoulders. Jon recognizes an indirect message when he sees one, and he quickly copies the motions, digging his long fingernails onto the soft skin of Martin’s back, loving how they slip with ease, how they dig onto the supple meat of his soft body. He runs them down Martin’s spine slowly, making sure to leave deep red grooves on his way down, and Martin has to pull away from their kiss to scream, forehead against Jon’s collarbone, his voice high and warbly, desperate and relieved all the same.

“God, _Jon_ ,” he says, hips rolling slowly under Jon, their erections rubbing against each other. Jon gasps, pulls away, starts pressing kisses over Martin’s cheek, ear, jaw, down to his neck, which Martin bares on instinct. “Fuck me, _please_ , I’m begging you,” he says, eyes watering when Jon wraps his hand around both their erections and gives them a few firm strokes.

“No need for begging, Martin,” he says against his jaw, lips grazing against his stubble, one of his hands gripping low on Martin’s thigh and slipping on the slick that’s spread around his bottom. “I’ll give you anything you want. _Anything_.”

After a bit of adjusting Jon lines himself up between Martin’s legs, and Martin hesitates for a second, torn between wanting to throw himself back onto the floor and holding onto Jon for dear life. He decides on the latter, hiding his face on Jon’s shoulder, fist clenched and arms tight around him.

Jon’s heard of how omegas feel when in heat, of course he has, he’s not a prude, but it still surprises him when he presses gently against Martin and feels practically no resistance, despite the fact that neither of them did anything to prep him previously. It’s a rare treat when either of them decide to have penetrative sex—Jon rarely has the energy to engage in any sort of intimacy on the best of days, and penetration always takes so much _work_ they usually save it for special days when they _really_ feel like putting the time and effort and are in the right headspace to _really_ focus on it, to really and truly enjoy it, which means that Jon can count in one hand the number of times they’ve indulged on it since they’ve started dating—so it’s odd to just sink in like that, slow and careful but with none of the tightness or resistance one would usually expect. It’s not at all bad, though, not in the least, and the amount of slick Martin’s body is producing means there’s barely any friction in between them. Jon wonders if Martin can even feel it, but he’s shaking like a leaf in his arms, babbling and breathing hard and fast against his shoulder, so the answer to that is yes, _definitely_ yes.

And if Martin’s skin feels warm, the searing hot heat enveloping Jon is almost unbearable. He has to stop and wait a few seconds to get used to it, breathing deep and raggedly, hands clutching Martin’s hips tightly, and Martin, in turn, whines loudly, impatient, biting down on Jon’s shoulder.

“Jon... _please_. You’re _killing_ me here.”

Jon chuckles. “Glad to see you’re still coherent enough to put words together.”

Martin groans. “Barely,” he mutters, biting down onto Jon’s shoulder again, and Jon moans, hips stuttering, that warmth spreading up to the pit of his stomach and down his legs, and Martin keens, low and long, mouth open and panting against Jon’s skin, completely lost in bliss.

Jon loves him so much it hurts.

So he gives Martin what he needs, and thrusts, _hard_.

It’s like a switch has been flipped. Jon would usually start up low and slow, building up speed exponentially, savouring the moment and letting the build-up add to the whole experience, but right now all he wants is to pound into Martin, sink him further down in between the pillows, punching his breath out of him with each and every thrust, enjoying the high pitched moans that grow higher and louder with each breath he huffs out to the rhythm of their rocking.

It’s incendiary in all the right ways. Jon feels sweat building up on his skin, his hands slipping over Martin’s slick skin, his legs trembling, his knees aching as he desperately tries to find leverage on the damp towels beneath him. Martin is completely taken by ecstasy, and vaguely Jon registers him screaming his name as he comes untouched, the muscles around Jon’s erection fluttering and spasming as come coats both their fronts and neither of them can bring themselves to care.

The sensations are too much for Jon and he joins Martin soon after—in normal circumstances he’d be worried about how quickly he’s been able to finish, but he knows it has something to do with weird heat pheromones; they definitely don’t affect betas quite as hard, but it’d be a lie to say they do nothing at all. He stills his movements, hugging Martin closer to him as they both relax in each other’s arms, as they feel each other’s pulses, fluttering and desperate, almost at the very same rhythm.

For several minutes they stay like that, and eventually Jon notices Martin’s fallen asleep. Jon snorts, fondly, and finally pulls out, carefully untangling himself from Martin’s arms to fetch a cloth with warm water to rinse them both off.

Martin stirs and opens his eyes just as Jon’s put his sweatpants back on and is finishing wiping a bit of come off of Martin’s chest. Jon smiles and runs his free hand through his messy curls.

“Hey there, you. How are you feeling?”

“Um,” Martin says, frowning. Jon frowns as well, not exactly expecting this sort of response, and when he looks down– _yes_ , that is in fact Martin’s erection, standing up to attention almost as if nothing’s happened.

 _Well_.

“I feel... less warm? But, uh. It’s b-building. Again. It’s– _fuck_ , it’s _burning_ again, _ooooh_.”

And that’s when Jon finally realizes he’s in way over his head.

\---

The first person he calls is Sasha.

“Did you get him a knot?”

Jon hesitates. Sasha sighs.

“Jon, my sweet, precious man. Omegas going through their first heat usually need a knot to get through it somewhat sane, just regular intercourse won’t do it. You told me you’d done your research!”

“I did! I did,” he exclaims, rubbing his nape. “The, uh, the pamphlet said knots were simply recommended, though, and I didn’t...”

Sasha cuts him off. “ _Recommended_ for people with _regular_ heats, Jon, which is what the pamphlet you got is geared towards. Martin, on the other hand, is a man in his late twenties having his first heat ever. This isn’t a matter of _recommended_ at this point, it’s very much _required_.”

“Fuck,” Jon curses, slumping. Martin squeezes his hand and Jon tries smiling down at him, but it comes out tense, and he goes right back to grimacing as Martin shoots him a worried look. “Fuck, okay. Okay.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask, but did you get any alpha pheromone cream? Or maybe a spray?”

Jon hesitates again. He hears someone snort somewhere next to Sasha– Tim, of course. “Sash, he didn’t get a knot sleeve, I bet he has no idea what you’re even talking about.”

Which is absolutely right, _Jon has_ _no idea_ , which is when it starts to sink in just how badly he’s fucked up.

“Alpha pheromone creams make betas or omegas smell like alphas, and that helps ground omegas through their heat. Honestly, Jon, did you just read the one pamphlet?!”

“And a couple of medical websites,” he says, which now that he thinks about it, all spoke about what an _alpha_ should do to help their omega through their heat. Fucking normative medicine, as if they’re not in 2017 and people still only mate with “matching” traits. “All other websites looked really intimidating, there were porn ads wherever I looked, I didn’t–” He pauses to take a deep breath, squeezes Martin’s hand right back. Martin whimpers in response and it makes Jon’s heart break. “I fucked up,” he says, softly. “I’m a bad boyfriend–”

“No, _Jon_.”

“Jon, _come on_.”

“–who didn’t do his proper diligence beforehand, and now Martin is _burning up_ quite badly and I would _really_ appreciate some help here, Sasha. You can admonish me for all of this later, but _please_ , right now I need your help. What can I do?”

There’s a long pause. Jon can almost see Sasha exchanging looks with Tim, the two of them both worried and annoyed. Tim says something too lowly for Jon to make out, and after a bit of ruffling through the speakers the phone is passed over to him.

“Put me on speakerphone, Jon,” Tim says, sounding tired. Jon does so. “Marto, my man. How’re you feeling?”

“Like I’m _dying_ ,” he says, gasping, and Jon winces.

“Right. Expected as much. Now, Martin, Jon, I’m going to ask you both something here, and I want you to be honest with me. Is that cool?”

Martin nods, and after realizing Tim can’t see him, says, “Y-yeah,” his voice wavering.

“Right. Do you two trust me?”

“Yeah, of course,” Martin says, without even blinking, and Jon says the same. Jon and Tim have been coworkers ever since Jon was first hired, becoming good friends not long after—Martin as well, despite them working in different departments at first—and Jon knows that Tim might be a pain on occasion, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Tim hums, and Jon can almost see him nodding. “Right. Well, I _wasn’t_ going to say anything, but Martin’s, uh, _perfume,_ may have triggered my rut early. Just mayhaps.”

“Oh,” Martin says, dumbfounded. Jon widens his eyes.

“Yup. _Oh_. So, uh. What I’m trying to say here, and doing one hell of a bad job at, is that I could... help. If you two want me to. No strings attached. Just a friend helping two buddies out, no nefarious intentions behind it.”

Help.

Jon turns the word over in his mind. He knows what Tim meant by that, but he’s not sure how to feel about it.

He looks down at Martin, eyes are wide as saucers, cheeks blushing a deep red, making his freckles stand out beautifully. Jon wants to kiss every inch of his skin until he’s counted all of them, one by one.

“Your call, Martin,” he whispers, and on the other side of the phone Tim and Sasha are silent, waiting for them to make a decision. Martin looks up at Jon, bewildered.

“W-what? You mean, you wouldn’t–”

“Be jealous? Martin, please. This is Tim, but more importantly, this is _me_ we’re talking about. And like I said, I trust him. _We_ trust him. At the end of the day it’s just sex, and you know how I feel about it. I believe my exact words were… _it’s like an itch one needs to scratch every now and then_ , only in this case my attempts at helping you with it have been subpar at best. So if employing the help of a very nice and handsome alpha will do the trick, then, well. How can I possibly deny you that?”

Martin laughs at that, and Tim _awwwh_ ’s on the phone. “Jon, I’m _touched_. You think I’m nice _and_ handsome?”

“Shut up, Tim,” Jon says, and Tim chuckles, amused.

“W-well. If you don’t mind, then, um. And if Tim doesn’t mind either–”

“ _Mind?_ Marto, I’d be _delighted_.”

Martin giggles, still blushing. “Then yes. I’ll accept your, um. Help. _Please_.”

“You know, Tim, when I told you to go home to wear out your rut, this was _not_ what I had in mind,” Jon hears Sasha say, amused. Tim laughs.

“Right! Well, I know where your flat is, should I bring something along besides my gorgeous face and sharp wits?”

Jon looks down at Martin, who hesitates, but finally says,

“Some apple juice. Um. Please.”


	2. Chapter 2

Tim almost can’t walk into the flat.

He closes the door behind him, turns the latch, then leans against the door as he pulls the collar of his shirt up to cover his mouth and nose, eyes closed tightly, looking as if he’s hurt and struggling to keep standing.

Martin, with his head pillowed on Jon’s lap, looks at him through the slits of his eyes. He’s sweating something fierce, the arousal in his body consuming him, the ardent heat burning him from the inside out, leaving only anguish in its wake. It’s a weird sort of pain as well; his thighs feel numb, his chest aches, his arms and legs are heavy as lead. Everything _hurts_ but not in an agonizing way, more of an exhausting, _consuming_ way. Like he’s being worn down until there’s nothing left to give. He won’t die from this, he knows this for a fact, but he also knows he needs to do _something_ about the pain, otherwise the aftermath of this entire day is going to be an entire week of aching limbs and sluggish exhaustion.

He’s still leaking both precome and slick nonstop and his limbs sometimes spasm whenever a sudden rush of heat runs through him; Jon has not left his side since he got up to briefly unlock the door for Tim and put his sweatpants back on, which Martin understands is his way of saying he’s more or less done engaging in that particular way, but he’s also become a cuddlebug, lying next to Martin, unconcerned of the sweat and the body fluids, tangling their limbs together in the hopes that the more direct contact, the better Martin would feel. Instead it just makes the arousal build until it gets too warm and painful to even think, and in the end Jon needs to pull away to allow Martin some sort of reprieve.

Coherent thoughts are _hard_. Martin has a vague idea that Jon’s whispering soothing reassurances, but they’re unclear and end up getting lost in the wind. The hand petting his hair is nice, though, so when Jon maneuvers Martin to place a pillow over his crossed legs, adjusting Martin’s head and shoulders atop his lap, that’s how they stay for a very long time, and that is how Tim eventually finds them.

Tim curses, staggers forward, fishes a small juice box off of a shopping bag and places it next to Martin’s head.

Martin takes a deep breath, and suddenly he can _smell_ it. Smell _Tim_. It’s _warm_ and _safe_ , like a fireplace. _Comforting_. He thinks of sandalwood, thinks of ginger and cloves in warm black tea. He grins, the fog in his mind dissipating ever so slightly.

“You actually brought it,” he mumbles, pleased. Tim shudders, hisses through gritted teeth. His knees finally give out and he collapses onto the carpet, next to Martin’s makeshift pile of blankets and pillows.

“Of course I did...!” He groans, voice muffled from behind his shirt, shaking his head. " _Fuck_ , it's hard to concentrate. Hi boss. Hey Martin."

Martin hums, and Jon takes the juice box, tearing the straw off the back and poking it through the hole. He then angles the straw to Martin's lips, who drinks, slowly but surely.

The tanginess of the apple juice and the coolness of the liquid hits his tongue and he moans, salivating heavily, taking deeper gulps.

Tim watches his throat bob, hypnotized.

When Martin finishes drinking, he licks his lips, lifts his arm and reaches over to Tim. His hand flops down over his knee, fingers curling and nails scratching his jeans.

“C’mere,” Martin whispers, feeling Tim shiver under his touch. 

Tim closes his eyes, shoulders drawn up, and when he opens them he pulls his shirt down and off his face and takes a deep breath in. Immediately his cheeks flush, his mouth hangs open, and he licks his lips, swallowing. His entire body trembles as he exhales in a low moan, and it’s one hell of a sight that makes Martin shiver. Jon, both feeling and seeing how being in each other’s presence is affecting them both, leans down to place a kiss onto Martin's cheek.

"Still sure?" He asks, a soft whisper against his jaw. Martin nods, dazed, eyes firmly locked onto Tim’s face. He quickly looks down at his lap, at the pronounced tent in his pants, and gulps.

Martin takes a deep breath and feels the air flowing into his lungs warming him up even further, as if overriding the pain he’s been feeling and replacing it with comfort. It reminds him of how he feels whenever Jon hugs him when he’s feeling overwhelmed. When he drinks a warm cup of tea after a tiring day at work. Cuddling on the couch with his favourite fleece blanket when he’s shivering with the winter cold.

Jon digs his fingers into his scalp then, and combined with the new influx of sensation the touch sends tingles down Martin’s spine, like a million tiny fireworks running down his nerve endings, and he closes his eyes and presses the pad of his fingers onto Tim’s knee.

“And you?” Jon whispers, this time the question directed at Tim, and Martin opens his eyes just in time to see Tim nodding frantically, shaking his shoulders and arms. Hyping himself up. Martin snorts, and Tim looks down at him with a raised brow.

“Why’re you nervous, you were the one who volunteered to come and help!” He squeaks out, amused. Jon laughs as well, and Tim opens his mouth a few times as he tries to figure out what to say.

“I didn’t know it’d be _this_ bad!”

 _Yes you did_ , Martin wants to say, but he snorts instead, turning his head as Jon combs his fingers through his curls. “You can change your mind if you want, Tim,” Jon reassures him, using that serious tone he reserves for when he wants people to really take in whatever it is he’s saying, but Tim just gulps, then slaps his own face and proceeds to rip his shirt off.

“Guess not,” Martin says, amused, reaching up to curl a hand around Tim’s neck. “Come on, then,” and he pulls him down into a kiss.

It's _marvelous_. Tim's lips are velvety soft, burning hot against Martin’s, and this up close the smell of sandalwood and ginger is strong and _lovely_. He quickly tilts his head and parts his lips to deepen the kiss, which Tim happily obliges, and slowly he leans down until he’s hovering over Martin, framing his torso with his forearms. Martin hums and moans into the kiss, bringing his own arms up to wrap them around Tim's shoulders and pull him down until they’re chest to chest, skin to skin, until Tim’s fully enveloped in his embrace. The already diminishing pain quickly gives way to arousal once more, the sensation coursing through Martin’s entire body like a waterfall that has finally managed to push a boulder that’s been blocking its drop.

Despite the warmth of his lips, Tim’s skin feels cool against Martin’s, which he objectively knows is just further proof of how hot he’s running himself, but his mind instead focuses only on how _nice_ it feels, how _soothing_ , and he presses in ever closer, desperate for more contact, for more of that amazing feeling of being _touched_.

Tim pulls back with a tiny gasp, then leans further down and latches onto Martin’s neck, alternating between gently nipping and mouthing and desperately biting and sucking until Martin’s neck is flushed and marked in several different ways and spots, a myriad of red marks that mingle almost poetically with his freckles. Martin feels lost in the sensations, the sensitive skin of his neck alight with Tim’s ministrations, his whole body buzzing, arms and legs scrambling to hold on to _something_ , to ground him to the there and now.

His hand eventually finds Jon’s—or, more accurately, Jon’s hand finds his; he wraps their fingers tightly, then leans down and presses a kiss to Martin’s forehead. “Breathe, love,” he says, voice low and affectionate. Martin feels his heart skip a beat, a new, burning hot wave of arousal running down his body at the sound of Jon’s low baritone voice, starting from the point of contact between their hands, down to the sharp nips and kisses being placed upon his neck, all the way to the weight of Tim’s body over his own torso.

It’s easy, then, to reach down until he’s firmly grasping Tim’s hips, hard enough to probably bruise, and lean up, rubbing his erection against the crotch of Tim’s jeans, feeling the man’s own erection straining against the fabric of his pants. Tim moans, the sound sending shivers down Martin’s spine, then humps back down to meet Martin halfway, uncaring of the mess they’re probably making.

And then Jon runs his nails over Martin’s scalp, slowly and deliberately, and Martin’s _gone_.

When he moans out his voice is raspy and tired, and Tim latches onto his throat with redoubled energy, lips pressed against his skin to feel the vibrations of his vocal chords as he cries out. Martin can feel his own muscles tensing, his blood pumping hard and fast, come splattering in between them as he loses sense of everything around him for several beats.

He comes to a minute later, eyes still closed and his breathing heavy. Tim leans back a bit to allow him to take deep gulps of breath without his body weight pressing him down, which Martin’s grateful for, and when he opens his eyes again he notes Jon and Tim looking down at him, both grinning, pleased.

“That sounded lovely, Martin,” Jon whispers, and Martin feels himself blushing.

“W-well, Tim’s rather. Lovely,” he stutters, and Tim presses his lips together, looking flustered as he, too, flushes. A thought occurs to Martin all of the sudden, and he notes the wet spot on Tim’s thigh. “O-oh, _oh no,_ I’m so sorry about your jeans,” he whispers, bringing up a hand to cover his face, but Tim gently pulls that hand away and kisses his knuckles.

“Psh, like I care about that,” He says, laughter in his eyes. “God, I wish you could see yourself right now. You look _amazing_.”

“He always looks amazing,” Jon quips in, leaning down to press a kiss to Martin’s cheek. Tim scoffs, rolling his eyes dramatically. Jon giggles.

“Of course you’d say that, you’re his partner! You’re legally obliged to tell him he looks nice all the time.”

“Not true. I always tell Martin when he perhaps doesn’t look his best and might need some help cleaning up. Don’t I, love?”

"Wh– _hey_ , that doesn't count either! Of course he's gonna agree with you if you ask!"

Martin looks up in awe, speechless as the two of them bicker, Jon’s hand still idly combing through his locks and Tim’s hand holding onto Martin’s. He’s still panting slightly, his body shivering with aftershocks, but watching the two of them makes him smile giddily, something in his chest stirring in a way he cannot explain.

But then Tim shifts above him, and all coherent thought once again fails him as the friction of Tim’s crotch against his erection gets him back to the issue at hand. He shudders, moans out in surprise, and at once Jon and Tim look back at him. Tim grins, and Jon smiles fondly.

“We almost forgot about you for a second there, didn’t we, buddy?” Tim teases, and Martin laughs, a bit breathless.

“Sorta, yeah,” Martin says, licking his lips. He's not used to having this much attention on him, and, well. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t do something to him. Like a thrill that runs through his bones and makes him bolder than he’d normally be in such a situation.

He’s had fantasies about this—and really, who hasn’t? Two gorgeous men lavishing him with attention, touching him, overwhelming him with sensations. It almost feels unreal, but then Tim, still holding on to Martin’s hand, leans down and presses a kiss to Martin’s shoulder, looking up with a mischievous glint in his eyes that’s half hidden behind his own arousal. Martin takes another deep breath in and allows the scent of sandalwood and ginger to burn his airways as he, tentatively, reaches up with his free hand to wrap his fingers around Tim’s hair.

Tim responds by nipping Martin’s shoulder, then moving down, kissing every inch of skin as he goes along. When he reaches Martin’s nipple he wastes no time flattening his tongue over it, then sealing his lips around it and sucking, teeth grazing the sensitive spot on his way up. Martin can’t help but cry out again; he’s usually highly sensitive on the best of days, but right now it feels like his nerve endings are electrified, tiny little shocks surging through him whenever and wherever he’s touched.

Jon leans down to kiss him again, smiling fondly. “I love to see you moan and squirm,” he whispers, pressing several more kisses to the corner of Martin’s mouth, then down to his cheek, jaw and ear. Martin hums, turning his head towards the touch, hand tightening on Tim’s hair, gasping. “The way your freckles pop out when you blush. How your lip trembles. I could just watch you all day long.”

“Jon, _please_ ,” Martin whines, feeling his face warm up. Tim, noticing the events unfolding, moves up to kiss Martin on the opposite cheek, and somehow this flustrers Martin more than anything else that they’ve both done to him so far. Martin groans. “I’m being attacked! This is an onslaught!” He says, giggling as the two of them shower him with more and more kisses, but when Tim decides to poke his ribs and sides he squeaks, screams, and Tim just keeps going until Martin’s laughing uncontrollably, squirming and shivering as tears well up in his eyes. Jon quickly joins in, pressing his fingers to Martin’s underarms when he lifts them to try and push both of them off, and Tim takes the opportunity to run his fingers down Martin’s soft belly; their sync attack is as relentless as it is docil, and it wrecks Martin _beautifully_.

It takes a couple of minutes for the two of them to relent, taking pity on poor Martin, voice hoarse and body shivering with the lingering effects of the tickles, and he collapses back down onto the blankets and the now-askew pillow on Jon’s lap. He’s panting, tired, and his cheeks hurt from grinning, but he’s feeling much lighter than he did before. His arousal is still there, certainly, but it’s more of a background thing rather than the _only_ thing he can actually focus on. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed this moment of distraction, of levity, to get back into a better headspace than he was in before.

When he opens his eyes again Tim is sitting next to Jon, drinking deeply from a water bottle. “Welcome back to the world of the living,” he teases, then hands him the bottle. Jon helps him sit up so he can drink, and Tim stretches his arms above his head like a cat. “Right. I think now that we’re both a bit more coherent we should talk this through properly, before pesky hormones take over the party again. How’s that sound, Marto?”

Martin licks his lips, caps the water bottle and sets it aside. “I-I mean. What’s there to talk about, really? I thought this was, um. Pretty straight-forward?”

Tim hums, picking at the frayed edge of a rip on his jeans. “Say, you ever been knotted before?”

“W-what, I! N-no, no, I, um. No, I haven’t, really.”

Tim nods. “Well, since this is your first heat, and thus it’s affecting you quite harshly, you should probably consider that. I’ll do it, with both your and Jon’s consent, but I just want to know for sure I’m not pushing you to do anything you wouldn’t want or feel comfortable with.”

Martin widens his eyes a little, feels his heart beat fast. Just the mental image of being knotted, is, well. It’s quite _something_. He squirms a bit in place, and Jon wraps his arms around him, to soothe him and ground him. He exhales softly.

“I mean. I figured that was why you were here?”

“I mean, _yes_. But still. I wouldn’t want to do it if you weren’t sure about it. Knotting can be. Hm. _Intense_ is a word for it. Also, I want to hear from you if there’s anything you wouldn’t want me to do, anywhere I shouldn’t touch. I don’t want you to think that because I’m here to help out with your heat I should be given free reign to do whatever I want to you.”

Martin pauses. His heart skips a beat and he bites his lip. Tim places a hand over his knee and gives him a reassuring, gentle smile.

“You’re my friend, Martin. The last thing I want is to not make this a good experience for you.”

“I mean, I get that, it’s just...” Martin shakes his head, wraps a hand around the arm Jon has around his chest. “You hear all of these stories of how mindless alphas and omegas get when they’re in heat or in rut, and especially both at the same time. It’s. I didn’t know it was even _possible_ to sit down and talk about it like we’re doing, especially when everything feels so _overwhelming_.”

Tim chuckles. “That’s what movies and porn want you to believe alright. But if you focus really hard then it’s not impossible, just. _Hard_. Pun intended.” Tim winks, and both Jon and Martin scoff and groan. “Most assholes prefer taking the easy route of just letting instinct take them for the ride and use that as an excuse for whatever happens, but I’ve figured that _not_ being a raging asshole is actually pretty chill.”

Martin chuckles, then sighs and stirs in Jon’s arms as he starts feeling that telltale warmth surging through him again. Jon, ever worried as he is, notices his discomfort right away and tightens his hold.

“What’s on your mind, love?” He asks. Martin hums.

“Nothing in particular, just... thinking on it. I don’t think there’s anything in particular that I’d be opposed to, especially not now. Just... don’t bite hard enough to draw blood, don’t hit me or slap me, don’t, uh. Don’t pinch me? I bruise like a ripe fruit, really.”

Tim barks out a laugh, then scoots closer to give Martin a quick peck on the lips. “Does that mean knotting’s okay, then?”

Martin twists his head, looks at Jon. He just nods, smiling as if he’s proud of Martin. He takes a deep breath, resolute.

“Y-yeah. It’s. Definitely okay. More than okay, even. I’m, um. Really looking forward to it, actually.” He pauses, licks his lips again, then looks back up, straight into Tim’s eyes, trying to convey as much as possible in that one, intense stare. “I trust you.”

Tim smiles. “Thank you for trusting me. I promise I’ll take good care of you,” he says, then leans in for another, deeper kiss.

Martin moans, not expecting the intensity of it right away, and in response Jon adjusts the arms wrapped around him as he presses his lips to Martin’s nape. At the same time Tim reaches down to place his hands on each side of Martin’s hips, and it’s like a dam that finally opens its ports, because suddenly Martin feels everything acutely all over again. Tim’s musky scent fills his senses, the hands that touch him light up his nerves like fireworks once more, and his once forgotten erection reminds him in no uncertain terms that it’s very interested in the events unfolding before him.

Martin’s brain also (unhelpfully) reminds him of how he’s sandwiched between two gorgeous men who are ready to wreck him to pieces in the most loving way possible, and it almost doesn’t feel _real_.

A hand wraps around his erection, firm and sure, making Martin buck his hips and gasp. At first Martin thinks it’s Tim, but when said hand starts moving up and down his length slowly with the practiced ease of someone who knows exactly what Martin likes he knows it’s Jon. His other hand is draped across Martin’s chest, grabbing on to his opposite shoulder, as Jon lavishes the side of his neck and shoulder with attention. Tim pulls away, and although Martin at first whines at the loss, the noise is quickly bit back with a choke as he realizes Tim’s _finally_ getting rid of his jeans.

Once the jeans are thrown to the side he moves his gaze down to where Jon’s stroking Martin’s length in a tortuous slow pace, and although Martin can’t really see it he just _knows_ Jon has his eyes locked onto Tim, daring him to do the wrong thing, urging him to move, to act on his promises.

Tim licks his lips. “Can I...?” He asks, gesturing down, and Martin nods frantically.

“Oh, fuck, _please–_ ”

And that’s all the encouragement Tim needs as the very next moment he’s lying down onto the blankets and pressing his face against Martin’s inner thigh. Jon wipes the worst of the slick off his hand on a towel, then runs his fingers through Tim’s hair as he drowns in Martin’s sweet scent, looking positively drunk from it.

The gentle hand then runs down, cradles Tim’s jaw, then grips his chin roughly, forcing him to look up. Tim moans, and Jon chuckles.

“I hope you know how lucky you are,” Jon whispers menacingly. Martin shudders, something about that tone of voice doing _things_ to him, and his cock dribbles down a thick bead of precome that pools around his foreskin. Tim closes his eyes.

“The luckiest fucking man alive,” he says with a dumb grin on his face, and Jon pulls his hand away, humming in approval.

“Go on, then.”

There is something so _lovely_ to Martin about seeing people adore him.

Jon, resting his cheek against his shoulder, eyes closed, just breathing in and relaxing as he wraps his arms around his torso. Martin knows Jon enjoys how soft he is, loves being the big spoon like this, and Martin perhaps loves it as much as he does.

Tim, angling his head and wrapping his lips around Martin’s erection, eyes closed and expression stuck in pure bliss, tongue lavishing him with attention, mouth sucking until he’s pulled almost every drop of precome Martin has left within him.

Jon idly fondles Martin’s chest, thumbs caressing his nipples, drawing circles on the areola and fingernail flicking against the nub. Tim grabs at Martin’s fat thigh with one hand, kneading like a greedy cat, while the other alternates between angling and stroking Martin’s cock and playing with his testicles, content as one can be.

There’s just something about this whole situation, about having both his lover and his friend, two people he loves so very much, jumping at the opportunity to be there for him when he most needs them, just to make him _happy_ , that fills Martin’s chest with a warm feeling that overwhelms him more than anything ever could.

He places a hand, gently, over Tim’s head, and the other he uses to guide Jon into a kiss. His eyes well up with tears but he holds them back as much as he possibly can; he doesn’t want them to think anything’s wrong, because, _god_ , it’s very much quite the opposite.

When Tim pulls away a few minutes later he surges up to kiss Martin as well, almost shoving Jon away in the process. If Jon is annoyed about it, he doesn’t show it, and Martin enjoys licking his own slick off of Tim’s trimmed beard, enjoys tasting himself in the other man’s tongue.

“Lie down, belly down, I need–”

“ _Yes_ ,” Martin cuts him off, kissing him one last time. “Yes, _fuck_ , please, _yes_.”

“Let me,” Jon says, gently pushing them away, and Martin sags against Tim as Jon rearranges their little nest of blankets, discarding the towels that are at this point too wet to be laid down on comfortably. He sits on the floor with the couch against his back, pulls a pillow to his lap again, and urges Martin forward, who comes at once, wrapping his arms around Jon’s waist.

Tim, somewhere behind him, gasps a little. “What a sight,” he breathes out, then leans down to lick a broad stripe from Martin’s perineum to his hole. Martin jumps, surprised, but Tim quickly shoves a couple of pillows under Martin’s hips to get him at a better angle, then dives right back in to eat him out.

It’s _glorious_ in every sense of the word. Martin moans out, low and slow, as he feels yet another orgasm hit him—how many has it been so far? He’s lost count at this point, but he can’t bring himself to care all that much.

“Hope the pillows are washable,” Tim comments idly, and Jon chuckles.

“They all have waterproof covers on them. Now will you _please_ stop teasing dear Martin? I feel like he might pass out any second now. _Again_.”

“Right, yes,” Tim mumbles, and Martin feels that glorious pressure against his slick hole, and just like when Jon fucked him earlier it doesn’t take much for Tim to breach him at all. “Oh _fuck_ , Martin, you really _are_ burning up, _holy shit_.”

 _I warned you_ , Martin thinks, but all that comes out instead is a high-pitched keen as he feels every inch of Tim’s erection sliding into him until his hips are flush against Martin’s behind. Jon shushes him, kneading his shoulders and arms, a makeshift massage that has Martin humming, thoroughly pleased. “Fuck, _please_. Just– _please_ , Tim. I _need_ it.”

“I know,” he says, a bit breathless, and it’s a testament to how much this is also affecting him, how he doesn’t bother to tease Martin or weave a joke out of his desperate pleas. “I know, I got you, Martin. I got you.”

He starts rocking then, slow at first, then harder, each thrust and slap of skin against skin sounding out throughout the flat and pushing poor Martin against Jon, who holds him steady through it all. Martin can feel Jon’s erection poking against the pillow underneath Martin’s cheek, and although Jon doesn't indicate that he's looking for anything out of this, it pleases Martin to know that he's enjoying the show in his own way. He thinks about how hot it'd be to suck Jon off while he’s getting rammed, and it makes his mouth water.

The minutes stretch on almost impossibly. Tim alternates between fast and relentless and agonizingly slow, hands pulling and squeezing Martin’s ass lovingly. _He must have a great first-row view_ , Martin thinks, imagining how it must look, his overly slicked hole stretched and wet, loose and searing hot around him. His cock twitches weakly in a feeble attempt to come again, but it’s like his body knows what’s to come and holds it back. It still makes Martin cry out though, especially when the next thrust hits Martin’s prostate on its way in, and Martin jumps, feeling as if he’s been struck by lighting. Tim makes a tiny _huh_ and angles that way once more.

Martin screams. And screams. And _screams_.

After a long, agonizing, indiscernible amount of time, Martin feels it. The base of Tim’s cock is slowly swelling up, and where once it was easy to thrust in, now it takes a bit of wiggling, some effort that’s abnormal but makes Martin’s entire body burn up with desire, with _need_. Jon brushes Martin's hair off his sweaty forehead, whispers things like _you’re doing marvelously_ and _does that feel good, love?_ But Martin is all but gone, and all he knows and feels that increasing pressure shoving against him, demanding entry, desperate to breach him.

“ _Fuck_ , Martin, _ah–_ ” Tim moans out, and Martin’s sure he must’ve replied something, but it doesn’t matter because all at once Tim’s swelled knot goes in, and instead of pulling all the way out like he’s been doing Tim leaves it in, leaning over Martin like a human shield, moving his hips in tiny powerful thrusts that has Martin seeing stars.

It doesn’t hurt, to be stretched this way, even though Martin knows it should, by all means; he can feel the knot swelling even further, inch by tortuous inch, Tim’s face buried against Martin’s shoulder as he screams and cries out with bliss, until–

Until the knot swells enough to rub relentlessly against Martin’s prostate, and something in both of them _break_.

Tim shouts, teeth sinking into Martin’s shoulder as he comes, emptying himself inside Martin, and Martin follows suit, this one last orgasm more powerful and intense than all the others he’s had previously. The bite against his shoulder is like someone’s punched the breath out of him, leaving him winded, and vaguely he notices his hands are wrapped around Jon’s, grabbing onto them like a lifeline.

The edges of his vision go black as this last orgasm draws itself out for several seconds, in sync with Tim’s, who, Martin notes vaguely, is still rutting against Martin, slowly and desperately, panting and drooling over the bite mark he’s left on his shoulder.

Martin peeks and confirms that he didn’t break the skin with that bite, and a little pleased smile blooms over his face before he closes his eyes in bliss.

\---

It takes several hours for Tim’s knot to deflate enough for him to pull out.

Jon is just the loveliest throughout the aftermath. He brings them chocolate-covered protein bars, takes away the blankets that look worse for wear, replacing them with fresh ones, cracking a joke about how he’ll need to visit the laundromat when there isn’t anyone around to ask any questions, then cleans the worst of their mess off their bodies with a warm, damp cloth. He then joins them both on the floor for a cuddle pile, the three of them falling into a deep slumber right there, in the middle of the living room.

Martin wakes what feels like several hours later. It takes him a bit to come to, but when he does he notices he's somehow moved to the couch, and Tim and Jon are in the kitchen, talking amicably.

When they come back into the living room there's a warm pizza with them, and Tim smiles when he sees Martin awake.

"Right on time! We have food!" He says, indicating the tray on his hand. Martin inhales deeply and, although he can more or less still smell Tim in him and in the house, the savoury smell of the pizza—peppers, onions, and mushroom over mozzarella cheese and red sauce—is the most noticeable thing instead.

"How long have I been asleep for?" He asks. Jon moves Martin's feet out of the way and sits at the end of the couch, running his hands over his calves.

"About five hours," Jon says, and Martin widens his eyes.

"Bloody hell," he mutters, sitting up, wrapping the sheets covering him around his shoulders. He feels his whole body aching, but it's a good sort of ache, like you'd get after a day of heavy exercising. He leans against Jon's side, thanking Tim when he places a bottle of water next to Martin and a plate with two pizza slices over Jon's lap.

Tim settles on the rug, leaning against the coffee table and facing Jon and Martin, and takes a massive bite off his pizza slice.

"For a frozen pizza this is pretty good," Tim comments, and Martin hums as he drinks.

"It's Martin's favourite," Jon comments, pressing a small peck to Martin's cheek.

They eat in silence for a bit, Martin closing his eyes as he lays his head against Jon's shoulder.

"How are you feeling?" Jon asks, and Martin takes a bite off the crust of his pizza.

"Sleepy. Tired. Hm. Sated, I guess?" He sighs, sets the last bite down on the plate. When he looks back up Jon and Tim are watching him intently, and the attention makes him blush. "T-thank you. This was, um. Well, just. _Amazing_. I... couldn't have hoped for a better first heat, honestly."

"We're always here for you, Marto," Tim says, smiling. "I agree, this was smashing. You know I'm always delighted to help you out."

Martin smiles again, feels Jon placing a kiss atop his head.

"And I'm sorry for... not being as prepared as I should've been, before. I–" But both Tim and Martin cut him off, shushing him.

"You're alright, Jon," Tim says, and Martin hugs him tightly.

"More than alright," Martin adds. "I don't blame you for being flustered and not being super thorough. May I remind you I'm twenty-eight and just having my first heat? If anyone knows about avoiding even thinking about things that makes them nervous I'm probably the number one on that list."

Jon snorts, hugs him back, relents. They finish dinner with a bit of small talk, then the three of them snuggle up on the couch to watch a movie. When Martin's much too tired to keep his eyes open he feels Tim's arms wrap around his frame, carrying him to the bedroom and seting him down on the bed, almost immediatelly crawling under the covers behind him. Jon settles as the littlest spoon, tangling their legs together in an intricate knot, and it all feels _easy_ , like they’ve done this a million times before.

When Martin finally relaxes and closes his eyes, wrapped in two different embraces at once, he notes how _warm_ he feels, but this time, for completely different reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consent talk? in _my_ abo fic?? it's more likely than you think!
> 
> Thank u to my friend Swag for being my beta for this chapter, and I hope u all enjoy this most awaited chapter!!! hapy monday everyone, stay safe, fed and hydrated <3


End file.
